Boredom drives Scot at Izzle! Izzle pfaff! to speak, hilariously, like that windy Faulknarian, Cormac McCarthy:

Going into the restaurant they then sat down and they ordered from the waiter and the waiter said Okay let me get that for ye and he presently brought them the flesh and they ate it as man has been eating flesh since the sky wore a younger dress and our grandfathers danced in the skirts. The husband and his steadfast wife chewed and chewed the meat, hewing it with heavy knives, wielded with no uncertain skill and when they finished the meat he spat on the carpet.

Dont you spit on that damn carpet, she said again and he said Damn it, I wont as he spat on the carpet. You are one hellcat, I say, he said and she said Dont you swear, and he said All right I wont damn it, and he spat on the carpet.

The waiter returned with the tab and said Ill be ye cashier when youre of a mind to it. All right, he said. The bill was too high and the husband got took of a mind for a gutting. A quick swipe of the blade through the mans fascia and he would wear his guts for garters or play them standupbasslike with a rhythm on the downbeat and in the end he did not do that and he undertipped the waiter a good five percent and he walked out of the restaurant with a feeling in his chest like blind fish swam there in its dark waters and humors.

Presently they returned home, husband and wife, each silent as apothecaries in dust and they sat down back again in their places that they had chosen years ago and which were beyond change or reckoning.

Hopefully, the boredom elapsed before any melons were fucked.